


Thoughts and Feedback

by presidentwarden



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Battle, Dragon Age Quest: The Landsmeet, F/F, Genderbending, Unresolved Emotional Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-27
Updated: 2016-04-27
Packaged: 2018-06-04 18:42:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6670291
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/presidentwarden/pseuds/presidentwarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alma makes her own choices. It’s the natural way of things, and it’s how she’s led this group through the Blight as a figurehead and a mastermind. Her companions don’t always agree with her decisions, but some are still willing to stand with her despite the Landsmeet’s outcome -- for now.</p><p>(This was originally posted as a chapter of a different work, but I've decided to change up that work so now this is standalone. Version of the Lady Loghain AU where all the companions are gals.)</p><p>- - - </p><p>It’s tied up in Alma’s race, as always. Either the humans fear elves, or they disrespect them. Everyone knows this. “Would you give the archdemon the benefit of the doubt before a final blow?”</p><p>“Of course not.” Alma sets her own hands on her hips to match Sten, a smaller mirror of the fearsome Qunari’s posture. “I did it for Loghain’s sake, so she would know to trust me. Not an advantage. A gesture.”</p><p>“Ah, trust.” Sten’s tone is etched with doubt, almost scornful. “She betrayed Cailan, Ferelden, even your own people in the alienage. Do you think that she will swear permanent allegiance to an elf who was kind to her, once?”</p><p>Alma’s eyes narrow. “She already has.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thoughts and Feedback

Naturally, Alma is mistaken.

No accolades await her, not that she would have ever truly expected them -- but there isn’t a word to be heard even to congratulate her for her work at the Landsmeet, her role in defeating and then recruiting a national hero. No comment on her spectacular act of mercy. Instead, an uneasy and deafening silence hangs over her and her group of companions as they sit together, waiting for the advent of the Queen.

When they speak, Anora is visibly tense. She approaches from a side door, royal gown swishing at her feet, but the hem’s faintly frayed from wear. It fits the situation, Alma thinks to herself -- all that finery worn thin from effort. Even Anora’s delicately woven braids, curled up and pinned at the nape of her neck, are unraveling, a few strands of wispy blond hair unraveling and flying free around her elegant face. Anora resembles her mother in personality, not so much in looks, but there is a certain determination to them both that is a hallmark of the Mac Tirs.

They exchange words, careful sentences phrased for diplomacy. Anora inclines her head slightly, looking down at the smaller woman, her incisive tone softened. “It couldn’t have been easy. I know.”

“It was easier than you would think, given my priorities.” Alma is just tired enough and just candid enough that it slips out. She stands, hands on her hips, the heels of her boots digging into the stone floor. Her feet hurt, her ribs ache, and a pounding headache is setting in. But she faces Anora squarely, explaining herself. “Loghain does what she believes is right. To strike her down after all that transpired would have been an act of malice. I don’t do those.”

“I understand.” Anora studies her coolly, blue eyes bright and keen. Her dress takes on a satiny sheen under the filtered light, as smooth and lustrous as the woman herself. “I’m grateful for your choice. A great woman like her wouldn’t have deserved such a sad end.”

“Then we agree entirely.”

“We do.” The queen pauses, wringing her hands for a moment. “I suppose I should go see about Lady Alistair. She’s shockingly similar to Cailan, truth be told. Most likely she’s caught up in a fit of pique at this very moment.”

“Maric’s son and daughter aremore alike than I might have thought.” Alma answers wryly, thinking back to Ostagar. Alistair is shorter, and less blonde, than the fallen young king, but broad-shouldered and square-jawed just like all those paintings of Maric the Savior, her sandy hair cut short and reluctantly combed back to fit untidily under a Warden helm. Throughout their yearlong search for allies, she muddled through, in her clumsy boyish way, under Alma’s guidance, but it was never a good match. And now she will rule alongside Anora, sharing the throne as queens. This will be either a stroke of brilliant politics, or a doomed calamity. “I suppose I should go speak to her, shouldn’t I.”

“I wish you luck with that.” Anora studies Alma again, taking stock of the small elf before her. Formidable, but often discounted due to her femininity and race. Anora is familiar with at least half of that. “Eamon has left for Redcliffe. I, and the remaining forces, will be joining him there. I urge you to gather your companions and travel there as soon as you can. You’ve managed to bring Ferelden back from the brink of a brutal civil war. If you can do the same against the Blight, this nation will thank you.”

“If I can manage any such thing, it’ll be for its own sake. Remember, I am just as much a citizen of this land as any of you.” Alma raises an eyebrow, but graces the younger Mac Tir with a faint smile.

Anora returns the smile, at least in part, then turns on her heel and strides out. There is nothing more to say. They seek their own ends, and for now, are united by a common cause.

Alma is still tense, but leans against the back of a nearby chair, exhaling sharply and rubbing her forehead. Anora did not inquire too deeply about Loghain. Her mother will be in safe hands now, that’s what matters. Safe. Too safe, maybe, given Alma’s inclinations. It’s been less than an hour since they parted, Loghain to seek her own quarters in the castle and Alma to wait, and wait, and wait some more, for news to come. Anora has finally arrived, and gone just as quickly. Alistair should be here already. The others she’ll seek out in turn, trying to gauge their feelings about today’s strange events.

She does not have far to look. Alma follows a path through the estate almost numbly, vials clinking in the bags strapped to her hips. She takes note of the decor out of the corner of her eye -- well-lit and lavish, the area of a single room twice the space of her own home. It’s all banners and vases and high wooden beams, an elaborate landscape painting hanging in the main hall that she covets for a flash of a moment before remembering she’d have nowhere to put it. Sten stands by it, inspecting in fascination, and Alma nods at the tall Qunari, passing by.

This flash of motion is enough to catch the warrior’s attention. Sten of the Beresaad turns ever so slightly, massive armor resting effortlessly on her broad shoulders, dark stern complexion warm in the lamplight. White braids are gathered into a ponytail above the nape of her neck, as always. She scrutinizes the canvas. “Masterful.”

“What, the painting?”

“Yes. The precision of the artist’s paintbrush could rival a well-honed blade.” Sten eyes Alma, looking down her nose at the small Warden. “Did you think I meant your performance at the Landsmeet? I certainly did not.”

Alma lifts her chin to meet Sten’s eyes, a curious purple shade. She is a peculiar case; a woman counted as a man among Qunari warriors, who rejects Ferelden’s backwards ideals entirely and considers herself separate from the female sex, yet follows a set of ethics that compelled her to kill in panic at the loss of her sword and lives by a moral code advocating ceaseless conquest. Puzzling, even to Alma. “Do you object to my choice to recruit Loghain?”

“No. What you did was uncommon. Some would even call it kind.” Sten clasps her hands behind her back, an incredibly imposing presence, even with her weapon elsewhere in Eamon’s personal armory. “We among the Qunari would call it practical.”

“Good. So?”

“You fought dishonorably.”

Just the slightest flinch and falter, a twitch at the corner of Alma’s eye. Were the grenades some sort of cheating? “How? I was unfairly matched against her. I needed to do all I could to win.”

“That is not the type of dishonor of which I speak. There is no shame in taking every advantage in a fight. But you did not.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“You faltered. You could have struck Loghain down in the corner, and spared yourself the pain of another injury and the humiliation of hesitation. You were weak in front of the men and women you seek to advise and govern.”

Alma’s mouth tightens into a thin line. “I don’t govern the nobles or the banns.”

“You mean to tell me you will not use your influence to shape the course of Ferelden?” Sten eyes her coolly. “Why will they fear you, now that they have seen your compassion to the point of cowardice?”

She has to admit, Sten has a point, as always. Either her points are delivered verbally, or at the tip of a blade. Alma prefers the former. “I’m sure I don’t need to ask why they  _should_ fear me, do I?”

“No, you do not.” It’s tied up in Alma’s race, as always. Either the humans fear elves, or they disrespect them. Everyone knows this. “Would you give the archdemon the benefit of the doubt before a final blow?”

“Of course not.” Alma sets her own hands on her hips to match Sten, a smaller mirror of the fearsome Qunari’s posture. “I did it for Loghain’s sake, so she would know to trust me. Not an advantage. A gesture.”

“Ah, trust.” Sten’s tone is etched with doubt, almost scornful. “She betrayed Cailan, Ferelden, even your own people in the alienage. Do you think that she will swear permanent allegiance to an elf who was kind to her, once?”

Alma’s eyes narrow. “She already has.”

Sten watches for a moment more, then nods ever so slightly, almost amused. “Then it seems that we are done here.” And she turns to face the painting once more as if nothing happened. “Leave me to my studies.”

The Warden watches Sten for a couple more seconds, then strides off, hands in her pockets. Perplexing, really. So Sten favors the choice to recruit Loghain, but not the manner in which it was done. Compared to Alistair’s reaction, this is hardly noteworthy. Besides, Sten is known to speak her mind more freely than some others in the party. Alma won’t dwell on the criticism.

She _will_  dwell on it, of course, but it’s easier to tell herself she won’t.

Alma steps through the entryway, taking stock of the area. The brief tour given to her upon her arrival has been long since forgotten, with more pressing concerns taking charge. She’s in a long dining hall now, its walls lined with locked cabinets and vases. Always the vases. These have some sort of bear motif imprinted upon the porcelain. She steps closer, running her hand down the cool surface of the ceramic, and briefly wonders about the necessity of so many identical urns. Then she remembers about Ferelden’s elaborate cremation customs, and abruptly retreats, almost tripping over a nearby bench.

“Watch your step, elf.” A deep voice, thick with the overhang of yesterday’s drink, leers at her from across the room. “Don’t want you spilling your pretty little guts all over Eamon’s floor. He’d make us all pay for the cleanup.”

“Thank you, Oghren, for  _that_ mental image.” Alma draws herself up, addressing Oghren rather sternly. The burly dwarf leans against the edge of the dining room table, which is about waist height for her, and lets out an improper belch as a sort of greeting; Alma scowls, but strides closer anyway, grey hair swishing loosely around her shoulders. “I suppose you’re here to tell me I fought poorly, too.”

“No, actually, nah. If I’d got a problem with you, it’d be from you countin’  _her_  as one of ours now. You fought just fine, Tab.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“What? It’s short for your name.”

Alma bristles abruptly, then sighs, leaning against one of the chairs in sudden weariness. Her gaze sweeps over the woman -- dressed in typical dwarven armor of adequate craftsmanship, flaming red hair braided to form a makeshift moustache and beard in front, cropped shorter at the back and top. It’s certainly a look. “Are two syllables too many? Really?”

“Soddin’ ancestors, you have  _no_  sense of humor.” At least Oghren is noticeably more sober than normal. Presumably someone in Eamon’s estate had the sense to cut off her access to alcohol. “The ale here’s piss poor, and I mean that. Tastes like weak toilet water. They won’t let me into the larder for the good stuff, either.”

Alma looks at Oghren rather disbelievingly. “You expected that they  _would_?”

“Nah, just saying. They also told me they’d charge me a hundred sovereigns if I broke the door down.” Oghren shrugs slightly, plates of her armor clinking. “Wasn’t really worth it.”

“I see.” Alma paces the perimeter of the dining room in a clear effort to rid herself of the conversation, but Oghren takes it as an invitation, striding beside her in fast short steps to match the elf’s strides. Alma is only barely taller than the berserker, but Oghren is about twice the width, and entirely confident in her dwarven height. They pass one of the guards, who nods silently, and Alma opts to head into the kitchen. There might be a distraction there. For Oghren’s sake, not hers. “So.” Might as well clear the air. “You don’t agree with my decision.”

Oghren shrugs expansively. “Doesn’t matter. If you want to let her think she belongs to us now, that’s your mistake. It sure isn’t mine to make.”

“How comforting.” Begrudgingly, she slides through the doorway into the kitchen, still with Oghren hot on her heels, who readily sniffs the air and announces ‘something’s cookin’.’ Alma ignores this and pulls up a seat at one of the long benches, chin resting in her hands, the heat from the fireplace assaulting her senses. A cat prowls along the tabletop, flicking its tail, whiskers twitching as it detects a scent; Alma lets out a delicate sneeze, covering her face with her hand, and sighs. “It _isn’t_  a mistake.”

“Sure it is, lady. How isn’t it? You gave up a kid that’s been at your side since this whole mess started.”

“Alistair made her own decision to leave. I  _crowned_ her, Oghren. She didn’t exactly lose out.”

“What good is that gonna do? You think she’s not going to be completely whipped by that blonde?”

“Anora has a name, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. Surfacer politics don’t mean much to me.”

“Fine. If only all of us were so lucky to avoid them.” Alma plucks an apple from a nearby basket, withdrawing a tiny sheathed knife from the pocket of her jacket and using it to abruptly cut a slice, then another, doing it by rote until a neat stack of apple wedges sits piled on the clean tabletop. Idly, she reaches for one, savoring the taste. Fresh fruit was always hard to come by in the alienage. Elves received the bruised scraps while nobles enjoyed the ripest crops, as always. She bites into the wedge thoughtfully, finishing it off, then reaches for another, waiting until she’s finished eating before she speaks again. “You know, Loghain’s going to be an great asset to us.”

“Forget assets. Why didn’t you use that knife in the fight? You could’ve shanked her.”

Alma responds with a look of disbelief. “Through silverite? She was wearing chevalier plate.”

Oghren makes a noise somewhere between a scoff and a burp. “Pffft. Even that’s got its weak spots.” She pauses, thinking something over.” You know what doesn’t?”

She sighs. They’ve been over this before, usually while one of them is drunk. “Finest Orzammar armor?”

“Well-- yeah. But I was gonna say,” and she hiccups before continuing, drawing a raised eyebrow from Alma, “my loyalty.” A moment for that to sink in. “Even with you makin’ this kind of decision, ol’ Oghren is by your side. No matter what.”

The eyebrow arches slightly higher, Alma’s face drawn in a pensive frown. “That’s very comforting, to know that you respect my leadership in spite of my decisions as a leader.”

 _“Exactly._ You say it better’n I can.” Oghren claps Alma on the shoulder, accidentally pushing her into the table slightly. “I’ve been in the Roads. I’ve seen the darkspawn for myself, right there in the filth they come from. Those roads belong to _us._ With you, we’ve got a real chance at ending this and taking back what’s ours, once and for all. Until the next archdemon rears its ugly sodding head.” The stocky woman shakes her head, beard-braids flying slightly. “What I mean to say is… I don’t think you made the right choice. If you or your new lady manage to convince me otherwise, fine. If not -- well, it won’t be the first time I’ve been right about something.” She tugs one armored glove off, flexing short and slightly grubby fingers, and runs her hand through her hair, brushing the short thick red hair upwards at the peak of her hairline. “But it doesn’t matter. If she follows you, it’s because you’ve earned it. And if she doesn’t, then I’ve got your back, even if that archdemon comes right up to knock on our door tomorrow morning.” She pauses. “You got that, Tabris?”

Alma’s face softens into a reluctant but charming smile. “Thank you, Oghren.”

“S’ my pleasure.” Oghren reaches for the pile of apple wedges, almost disbelieving. “What in sodding hell are  _these?”_

“Apples. Haven’t you ever had one?”

“Heard of ‘em. Surfacer fruit.”

“Yes. What _do_ you eat in Orzammar? Do you have any plants?” Probably not, since everything is underground. Alma can feel the foolishness of the question the second she asks it. 

“Sometimes we get ‘em in trade with the surface, but the only thing we can really eat is roots. Everything else spoils by the time they get it up the Frostbacks and back down to us.” Oghren shrugs. “We eat a lot of mushrooms. There’s all kinds. Sweet, spicy, bland, soft, tough, you name it.”

“Hmm. How odd. From what I’ve heard, they’re a bit of a delicacy here.” Alma picks up another apple slice, chewing thoughtfully. “I’ve never had them.”

“You ever come visit Orzammar again, give ‘em a try. They pair great with roast nug and a nice stout ale. Just like ma used to make, before I went surfacer.” Oghren leans forward, trying to get a glimpse of what’s cooking at the hearth, but is abruptly reprimanded by a bustling cook who prods her rather rudely, urging her to mind her own business. “Looks I’d better get out of here. Duty’s calling. Take care of yourself, huh?” She pats Alma on the shoulder again, gentler this time, and strides off, hustling out of the kitchen with the cook hot on her heels.

Presumably the cook has orders to allow the Warden to sit wherever she wants. Alma remains undisturbed, resting by herself on the bench and eating apple slices at a slow pensive pace, letting the crisp sweet taste linger on her tongue. It really has been much too long since she enjoyed fresh fruit, especially given to her for free. Something free, for an elf? What a thought. It’s impossible not to ponder how many elves from the alienage could be housed here in Eamon’s estate, clothed and fed with the riches from the arl’s treasury. Even the bare minimum out of Eamon’s pocket would be a year’s worth to an elf. Fate and a stroke of foresight put Alma in this position, but she can think of a hundred elves who deserve the same benefits. Shianni, Soris, Cyrion, close family and distant relatives alike, not to mention the alienage’s many other inhabitants under her watchful care. And Valendrian… oh, poor Valendrian, less an employer and more like a favored uncle to her, lost to the Tevinter slavers. She feels a surge of bile towards Howe, and a surprising hint of venom that reaches out to touch her feelings for Loghain, and chokes it back. She needs to be the better person here. Forgive, and right the wrongs.

Leliana interrupts her deliberation, sliding into the space in the bench beside her, and plucks a slice of apple from between Alma’s fingers, getting her attention in cheery Orlesian tones. She’s found a colorful spring-green frock somewhere, either fresh from the market or shamelessly raided from Isolde’s private closet. “You’ve been sitting here staring at nothing for three whole minutes! Are you all right?”

“Yes, I’m fine. Just thinking.” Alma brushes her hair back, tucking it behind one ear, and takes a look at Leliana. The braid in the Orlesian’s red hair is undone for once, a slightly longer lock of hair that the girl plays with carelessly, winding the auburn strands around one finger. Her eyes are bright, and she’s clearly well rested -- more fortunate than the remainder of the party. She’s also a great deal more cheerful than the others. Alma is not. “Have you come to reprimand me for the Landsmeet, too?”

“No, I think you did wonderfully.” Leliana reaches suddenly for the cat wandering around the kitchen, a furry fat thing grown stout from scraps, with yellow fur and big green eyes. She holds it in her lap, scratching it under the chin and listening to its purrs as its tail makes a lazy arc through the air. “Hello, Mr. Muffin--” And then a string of Orlesian pet names bordering on baby talk, cooing at the ginger beast. “--Anyway.” She clears her throat, remembering about dignity. “Don’t the others agree?”

“Anora isn’t happy to be co-ruling with Alistair. Sten thinks I fought poorly. Oghren wishes I hadn’t recruited Loghain at all.” Alma conceals a delicate sneeze, reluctant to comment on the cat and ruin Leliana’s moment of happiness. “I haven’t heard from the rest, but at this point I doubt anyone is satisfied with the outcome.”

“Well, aren’t  _you?_ ” Leliana peers at her curiously, ignoring the contented cat as it kneads her thigh with dull claws. “You did what you thought you ought to do. You have Loghain at your side now. Alistair, in spite of all her protests, is going to be perfectly fine. So is Anora. I think that you did it all as well as anyone could.” She beams. “And don’t mind Sten. You won.”

“Winning isn’t the matter. I could have struck down Loghain earlier and didn’t. I don’t know why I hesitated.” A mild white lie, and it shows on Alma’s face, forehead creasing as her brows knit together. “Mostly.”

Leliana gets a very faint look of mischief in her eye. “Come, now. I saw. There is no shame in a little flirtation between enemies. Among bards it is commonplace.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, we are not in Orlais!” Alma hovers on the brink of snapping before drawing back, resting her chin in her hands. “I intend to keep everything entirely professional. Imagine the consequences if it were otherwise.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Leliana lifts up the cat, looking him in the eye and sharing a sympathetic gaze, then sets him back on the table amid bothered meows. “So how did this happen? Surely you did not develop an infatuation for Loghain the very moment you stepped into the Landsmeet chamber and saw her standing there, all gleaming and stately in her River Dane armor.”

Alma furtively looks around the room, then looks again. The cook is gone. Thankfully. There aren’t any servants lurking about, either. “We met first at Ostagar. She was… striking.” She breathes out. “I spoke to her about the conditions in Denerim. She was sympathetic, at the time. So was Cailan, but I can spot an empty promise from miles. Loghain was my chance for change.”  Her face twists into bitterness. “And then, Howe convinced her, or she convinced herself, that the elves were beyond saving. Perhaps it was because of me.”

“No, no. That isn’t it.” Leliana reaches out to touch Alma’s wrist, a reassuring warm contact, and Alma stills, letting her worries fade again. “So... Ostagar?”

“Yes. Her mabari hound was ailing. So was another. I went into the Wilds to fetch a cure, and by the time I returned, Loghain’s hound had died. The other lived. You’ve met him.” Alma rubs her forehead, remembering. “We spoke some more after that, about the extent of the darkspawn threat. She thought it was dire, but couldn’t risk calling upon Orlais for support. I already knew why. I grew up hearing those stories as news. She didn’t put as much faith in the Wardens as Cailan did. Probably rightfully.”

“I… I understand.” Leliana nods sympathetically, leaning in slightly, eager for more details. “And then?”

“And then the retreat at Ostagar, our rescue, and the sentence put upon the living Wardens. The rest of the story tells itself. We both know none of it was personal by now, of course.”

“That  _is_ a relief! I would hate to see that interfere with things.” Leliana clears her throat. “For you two working together, I mean. The Hero of Ferelden and such a skilled general. I daresay the Blight doesn’t stand a chance against you two.”

“Neither does anyone else.” Alma reaches for the last apple slice, shoving it into her mouth whole in a sudden urge to avoid continuing the conversation. Leliana waits patiently until she’s finished, hands clasped in her lap, and Alma sighs, eventually responding. “Not a word of this to  _anyone_ , Leliana. I would be ruined.”

“Naturally. You were just telling me about your strategy for the duel.” Leliana sits up, drawing herself up sweetly on the bench. “If I may ask, what needs to be done before we face down the darkspawn once and for all? I can just picture it -- you and Lady Mac Tir standing arm in arm against the archdemon, weapons in hand, united by war. Oh, how poetic. It would lend itself to song.”

Alma develops a noticeable twitch. “ _AFTER_  the Blight, if you absolutely must.”

“Don’t worry. The manuscript will remain entirely private.” Leliana giggles, hiding her mouth with her hand. “No, no, I’m just joking. I won’t do it. I promise. It’s your story to tell, not mine.”

“That’s right.” Her frown shifts to a faintly satisfied look, tinged with a bit of concern. “We have a handful of matters to finish here in Ferelden. That should only take a few days. From there, we’ll see.” She has plans, but revealing too much might be unwise. Besides, it all depends on the information she can uncover within the week. “We’ll go to Redcliffe when everything else is in order. Not until.”

“Hmm, that seems quite reasonable.” Leliana strokes the cat’s fur idly, rubbing behind its ears. “Never forget, I am here to support you.”

Alma glances over at her. “Thank you. We all know I’ll need it.”


End file.
